Chapter 6 - Her Mother Still Belonged Here
Monique held the box for another moment.
Then she lowered it onto the floor.
The sound of cardboard touching hardwood seemed unusually loud.
Nia stood just inside the doorway, her tote bag hanging from one hand.
Tasha remained beside her.
Andre looked at the box, then at Monique.
“I told you yesterday that these things weren't being donated.”
Monique crossed her arms.
“I was moving it out of the garage. I didn't know we were going to keep everything forever.”
“This isn't about keeping everything forever.”
“Then what is it about?”
Andre looked toward Nia.
“It's about asking my daughter before deciding what parts of her mother we're allowed to keep.”
Nia's eyes filled.
She had waited so long to hear something like that.
Monique shook her head.
“So I'm the villain because I wanted us to have a home together?”
“No,” Andre answered. “But you crossed a line when you decided my daughter's memories were something you could throw away.”
Monique's voice shook.
“You have no idea what it's like being compared to someone who isn't here anymore.”
Nia spoke before her father could respond.
“I never asked you to be like Mom.”
Monique looked at her.
“I know you miss her.”
“No,” Nia said quietly. “You know I miss her. But you act like missing her is something I'm doing to hurt you.”
That stopped Monique.
Nia set her bag on the floor.
“I tried to like you. I helped pick out flowers for your wedding. I wore the dress you wanted. I even called you when Dad forgot your birthday dinner reservation.”
Andre looked at his daughter.
He hadn't known about the reservation.
Nia wiped her cheek.
“I wasn't trying to stop you from being family.”
Her voice cracked.
“I just didn't want Mom to stop being mine.”
Monique looked down.
For once, she didn't have an immediate response.
Andre stepped closer to Nia.
“Sweetheart, I owe you an apology.”
Nia looked at him cautiously.
He didn't reach for her.
Not yet.
“I helped take those pictures down. I knew it would upset you, and I let myself believe you'd eventually get used to it.”
He glanced at the blank wall.
“I told myself I was keeping peace in the house. But the truth is, I was avoiding a hard conversation.”
Nia's lips trembled.
“You promised we wouldn't forget her.”
“I did.”
“And you broke it.”
Andre nodded.
“Yes. I did.”
He let the admission stand without defending himself.
Then he said, “I'm sorry.”
For several seconds, Nia looked at the floor.
“Are the pictures going back?”
Andre nodded.
“If that's what you want, yes.”
“All of them?”
“We'll decide together which ones belong here and where the others should go. Nothing gets given away without you knowing and agreeing.”
Monique turned toward him.
“And where does that leave me?”
Andre looked at his wife.
“You have a place here. But Simone will always have a place in Nia's life. I won't ask my daughter to choose between loving her mother and living in her own home.”
Monique's eyes shone.
“I don't know if I can live like that.”
Andre's answer was quiet.
“Then we need to figure out whether this marriage can work without hurting my daughter.”
The room went still.
Monique looked from Andre to Nia.
Then she walked upstairs.
A few minutes later, the sound of drawers opening drifted down the hallway.
Andre didn't follow her.
He knew they would need a longer conversation, possibly more than one.
But he also knew he couldn't ask Nia to keep surrendering pieces of her life while he figured things out.
Monique came downstairs with an overnight bag.
“I'm going to stay with my sister for a few days,” she told him.
Andre nodded.
“We'll talk.”
Monique looked once more at Nia.
“I didn't understand how much this meant to you.”
Nia didn't answer.
An explanation wasn't the same thing as making things right.
After Monique left, the house became quiet again.
But this time, the silence felt different.
Andre turned toward the cardboard box.
“Would you help me put some of these pictures back?”
Nia hesitated.
Then she nodded.
Tasha helped unpack the frames while Andre fetched his toolbox.
Nia chose the first picture.
Her mother in the red headwrap.
She carried it into the living room and pointed to the center of the wall.
“There.”
Andre smiled faintly.
“That's where it used to hang.”
“I know.”
He held the frame in position while Nia stepped back to check whether it was straight.
“A little left,” she said.
He adjusted it.
“Like that?”
“Yeah.”
Andre secured the frame.
Then he stood beside his daughter.
They looked at Simone's smiling face.
Nia wiped her eyes.
“Dad?”
“Yeah, baby?”
“Can we still make Mom's dinner tonight?”
Andre's throat tightened.
“I'd like that.”
Tasha smiled.
“I brought the cornbread.”
For the first time all weekend, Nia laughed.
It was a small laugh.
But Andre hadn't realized how badly he'd missed hearing it.
They spent the evening cooking from Simone's blue recipe tin.
Andre added too much sugar to the French toast mixture.
Nia caught him.
“Mom wrote instructions specifically because of you.”
Andre laughed.
“I see that.”
They ate at the dining table, talking about Simone.
Not as if she were still alive.
Not as if her death had never happened.
But as someone who had lived, laughed, made mistakes, loved fiercely, and mattered.
Over the following weeks, Andre began working to repair what he had damaged.
He arranged counseling sessions for himself and Nia.
He talked with Monique about what would need to change before they could consider living together again.
And he stopped making decisions about family memories without his daughter's voice being part of the conversation.
Trust didn't return overnight.
Some evenings, Nia was still angry.
Sometimes she didn't want to talk.
Andre learned not to force her.
He listened.
He kept showing up.
One Sunday afternoon, Nia came home from visiting a friend.
She kicked off her sneakers beside the door.
“Hi, Dad!”
Andre looked up from the kitchen.
“Hey, sweetheart. How was your day?”
“Pretty good.”
She walked through the living room.
The wall was no longer empty.
There were photographs of Simone, Andre, and Nia. New pictures had found places alongside the old ones.
In the center was her mother's portrait.
Nia paused beside it.
She smiled.
Then she continued into the kitchen, where her father was making dinner.
Simone would never walk through that door again.
Nia knew that.
But she no longer had to hide her mother's face in a bedroom or lower her voice when she said her name.
May you like
Her mother had belonged to this family.
And now, finally, the house remembered it too.
